A Cure For The Vicomtesse
by Xix Crane
Summary: Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny is frantic to cure her "modern illness". In desperation, she seeks out an unusual doctor, one who doesn't advertise and hides away from the world. Victorian doctor/female hysteria AU
1. A Cure for the Vicomtesse

It was just as her servant had said: a red door tucked into a back alley in the area between some of the small town's shops. Christine readjusted her bonnet and nervously glanced around to be certain no one was nearby. With quick, determined steps, she approached the door, lifted her hand to knock - and paused. On the other side of the door, she heard music, beautifully played on a piano. She pressed her ear to the door, trying to discern what the piece was for a moment, but hearing a hansom cab pass nearby startled her - after all, what would people think if she was seen in such a strange place? - and she quickly rapped on the door.

The piano didn't stop so she knocked harder. This time, there was a pause in playing. She knocked once more to be certain she was heard. At this, the piano started up again, playing louder and more forcefully as if to drown her out.

She had been planning this mission for weeks now and she wasn't going to waste her determination on a dead end. She insisted she be heard and knocked much more forcefully this fourth time.

"Hello?" She said, the music continuing _fortissimo_. Pressing her ear to the door, she was able to pick out the tune - Chopin's _Fantasie Impromptu_. The playing was quite masterful, enchanting even, yet it vexed her so that the person on the other side of the door knew she was there and was trying to drown her out by banging the piece out as loudly as possible. She refused to be ignored and, after another glance around to be sure she was quite alone, lifted her voice and started singing to match the main melody.

Now the playing faltered. Christine stopped singing. Slowly, the playing began again, seemingly waiting for her to sing once more. After a moment or so, she added her voice back, just for a few notes. The playing abruptly stopped and was replaced by the sounds of heavy, rushed footsteps coming to the door. The peep hole slid open and she saw a strange, amber-colored eye on the other side.

"Who's there?" The question was rudely barked without so much as a "how do you do".

"Good evening." Christine tried to maintain her civility and composure. "I understand that you are a doctor...Is that correct?"

The eye searched around until it found her, pointed straight towards her. "Were you the one making that noise?"

"It's called 'singing'," she said.

"Don't tell me what's singing and what's not. Were you the one...singing?"

"Yes, sir. It seemed to be the only way to get your attention. Are you a doctor or not?"

"No, no, I'm not any kind of doctor."

Christine dropped her chin to her chest. "...oh. I'm...sorry to have interrupted your playing. Good day, sir."

"Wait…" The eye narrowed. "What do you want?"

"I want to speak with a particular doctor about an...illness."

"What sort of illness?"

"Monsieur!" She exclaimed. "It's a personal matter that I don't wish to discuss here in a back alley with someone who isn't a doctor through a hole in a doorway! Good day!"  
"Fine - " The eye blazed, the voice seemed to rattle Christine down to her bones. "I am a...sort of doctor. I just don't like to advertise."

Christine stood on her tiptoes to try to get equal with the eye. "That's exactly what I'm looking for, monsieur - I was told that you were an unconventional doctor and I have a...a modern illness."

There was a sigh and the peephole closed. For a second, she thought she had lost his attention but then she heard several locks unlatching and the red door swung open.

Standing to the side and holding open the door, the man ushered her inside. "Come in."

Christine hesitantly stepped into the apartment, wondering for the first time since she set out that afternoon if it was entirely the best idea that no one knew where she was. The room was warm and dark, the walls lined with volumes upon volumes of books and tasteful artwork, classically styled furniture all around. There, to the side, was the grand piano she had heard earlier through the door and it was utterly magnificent. It seemed to be custom made, the black lacquer polished to brilliance, little unique touches on the edges and the legs. On top of the piano, an unusual cat - cream colored with dark chocolate tips - lay watching her with half-closed brilliant blue eyes. She gave an apathetic yawn and allowed Christine to scratch her under her chin.

"Oh, monsieur - your home is so charming! And what a divine piano! Your cat is absolutely precious. Why, the jewels on her collar almost look like real diamonds!"

"Almost," he said.

She turned to face the man and had to stifle a gasp of surprise. He was impeccably dressed, tall with dark black hair that was greying at the temples, angular and lean. On his face, though, he wore a mask. It was made of porcelain perhaps and covered the majority of his face, leaving only his mouth and chin exposed. Two golden eyes, seemingly lit with fire from within, stared out from the mask with a fierce intensity. She felt like a mouse being sized up by a cobra.

"You're wondering why I wear a mask," he said, walking towards and then past her. "It's just as you imagine. I have a severe deformity and I don't wish to share it with the world." He brushed the tails of his morning coat from underneath him as he took a seat at the piano, his eyes still pinned to her, taking her breath away.

"This can go many ways…" He lay his elegant, long hands upon the piano and began to play. His fingers began to spin music like magic; it was even more entrancing up close and without a door between them. "...You might think 'how bad can it be?' and, in a fit of misguided, girlish curiosity, you snatch my mask away. What you would see would terrify you. You would run out, tell others that a monster was in their midst, and I would be driven away from my lovely, comfortable home, something I would find incredibly tedious at this point in my life because as you can see, I have many books I'm fond of and they take quite a while to pack up."

Christine remained quiet, trying to focus on his words but feeling his music flowing through her. God, it had been so long since she had heard such wonderful music! She felt starved for artistry, her soul finally gorging itself on beautiful sound.

He continued. "You seem like a woman of good manners..." Those golden eyes raked her up and down. "I believe I can trust you to be polite and afford me this one peculiar eccentricity. Please don't make me regret opening my door to you. Now, my dear - let's hear that voice. Come, come, don't be tongue tied - you felt so comfortable performing on my front stoop."

He played a scale, motioning for her to follow along. Christine hadn't sung for ages, not really. She had given a few little performances for her husband Raoul's friends in the parlor of their home but she herself had clipped the wings she used to soar on rather than face her feelings of unfulfillment. Besides - the angel of music had never felt worthy enough to visit her and give her divine inspiration.

Her voice was weak from disuse, but as she went through a few scales, she felt herself warming up.

"My dear, you're singing from here - " The man indicated an area at the center of her chest. "Dig deep - bring it from here -" With his long, elegant hand, he seemingly pulled her breath deeper within her. The hand followed the sound traveling from her center, up her throat, out of her mouth. It was as if he knew how to reach the very core of her and under his gentle yet firm guidance, he mined that longing within her, bringing out a sound she never knew she was capable of. She felt as if she had reached a deep, intimate place within her and it thrilled her in a way she didn't quite understand.

He kept working with her, playing more complicated bits and encouraging her to follow along. She felt at first as if he were toying with her but she couldn't help but keep going. He seemed to know just what she needed to reach further with her voice than she had gone before. As they continued, he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as she was - and perhaps even holding back from expressing that pleasure just as she was as well. After all, it was improper for two strangers to share such a deep, almost intimate connection...wasn't it?

After a while, he stopped playing and turned to her with a gleam in his eye. "Hmm...A fine instrument, could use a little polishing. Tell me - where did you learn to sing?"

"I used to be a soprano at the opera populaire in Paris, sir."

"A soprano?" She could almost see his eyebrow raising under the porcelain mask. "When?"

"Oh, a few years ago now. It wasn't for very long; I was married shortly after my debut." She wrung her hands together nervously. "Sir, I didn't even have a chance to introduce myself. I am the Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny. And you, sir? How should I address you…?"

He look at her with his penetrating gaze as if searching for something. "...You may call me Erik."

"Just Erik? Not doctor…?"

"Just Erik is suitable."

Erik resumed playing, trying to remember if he had ever heard her perform at the opera before. The older he was, the more loathe he grew to leave his comfy little home secreted away in this tiny town. And yet, the opera called to him and so from time to time, especially if the program was worth it, he would travel to Paris and stay with his good friend Nadir Khan. Nadir had a modest pension and couldn't afford a luxurious box seat on his own while Erik had grown rich by hook or by crook (and sometimes even by legitimate means!) and so as a favor to his friend, he kept a box at the theater for him. As the box afforded a great deal of privacy, Erik felt it was a good investment for himself as well. Nadir had made a friend at the theater - and Erik suspected their friendship went a bit deeper - a woman with some standing who did Erik the favor of letting him in by a side door and making sure no one ran across him on the way to their seats.

Perhaps this girl had been on stage during one of those years where Erik had been too melancholy, too misanthropic to leave his little nest. Nadir had written him a few letters describing an astounding talent that had seemingly come from nowhere but by the time Erik felt obliged to visit the theater again over a year later, the singer had vanished. Could it have been this girl who now appeared at his door?

He surmised she could possibly be in her mid 20s, perhaps even approaching 30 but good eating and an easy life had preserved her beauty. She obviously had money; her dress was of the most up-to-date style and she had the genteel manners of a society lady. Yet there was a little hint of betrayal in her mannerisms, an inkling that she was a pretender to wealth and had perhaps come from a more unfortunate background. He had seen girls like her ascend from ballet rats to mistresses or wives of wealthy men, from the stage to the box seats. Perhaps she had chosen a secure life with a monied husband - a vicomte even! - and left the stage. Who could blame her for making that choice? Erik had known poverty, too, and had done far worse things than giving up his music for a morsel to eat. Still…she hungered for music and art; it was plain on her face.

"So...you used to perform at the opera?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Did you have a favorite part?"

"Oh, too many to count! But, I suppose if I had to pick one…" She tapped a slender finger against her rosebud lips as she searched her mind. "I guess Marguerite from Faust was always an intriguing part, so moving and so human."

Marguerite! Faust! Erik felt as if he had been lanced straight through by divine lightning. Was this another of God's cruel tricks, to send him someone who shared the same interests he did? Letting someone in who was a potential friend was worse than allowing a foe to darken one's doorway. With a friend there was longing, there was loneliness, there was loss. It was even crueler that this temptation should take the form of a lovely young woman with such an incredible voice. No; Erik would rather face down an assassin than a potential friend.

"Monsieur," she said, breaking his train of thought. "If you'd like, I can attempt the jewel aria for you. I haven't sung it for so long, and I'm sure my voice isn't the best it could be, but if it's something you would like…" She smiled sweetly, the smile of someone who was trying to curry favor. He couldn't resist such a tempting offer.

"We could...attempt it. Please don't strain your voice on my behalf."

"It won't be anything much, just a bit of...a bit of fun that we're enjoying together."

He nodded. "Start wherever you'd like and I'll follow along."

"Que vois je la?" she began, her voice hesitant at first. By the time her Marguerite discovered the casket of jewels, she had found her footing. "Mon dieu - que de bijoux!" Her voice was so clear, so strong, so full of emotion. As they continued, they fed off of each other, losing themselves to the music.

When the last note played, Erik realized that his heart was hammering in his chest from excitement. No, no, no! This wasn't good! He needed to control his emotions, to remove himself from temptation, because whatever desire he felt - for friendship, for kinship for anything else - would never be resolved. It was better to go without wanting than to be tormented by unfulfilled cravings. He needed to get this girl out of his house immediately.

"What did you come here for?" he asked, trying to mask the effect her singing had on him with curt words.

"...I need a cure, monsieur. You see I have a sort of modern sickness and...Mon dieu, I'm shaking! May I please sit…?" She pressed her trembling hands to her heart, her cheeks flushing pink.

"...You're right; I've been a poor host. Please follow me to the parlor. Perhaps a cordial will steady your nerves." He rose to his feet and gestured for her to follow him to his parlor towards the back of the house, leading her deeper into his home against his rational wishes. Damn his manners!

Christine followed behind him, looking all around at his lovely yet eccentric apartment. It was quite narrow, more like a wide hallway. It was an unusual place to have an apartment but it made sense for his unusual needs. Its position between the storage spaces of a few local shops afforded him quite a bit of privacy and silence. They passed a modest kitchenette and she imagined the large door to the right of the main parlor was where his bedroom was no doubt situated. The parlor was a bit wider than the rest of the apartment and had floor to ceiling windows that overlooked a river. Heavy black curtains were drawn to the side revealing the cloudy afternoon sky, letting in a soft, hazy light.

She sank into the plush, velvet couch and politely accepted a cordial from her enigmatic host. He poured himself a significant snifter of brandy and took his place in a wingback chair opposite her. He folded his long, elegant limbs, took a sip, and fixed his intense eyes on her once more.

"Now, my dear...You mentioned a 'modern' illness? What does this mean?"

"Well…" All of the nerves that singing had taken away came back two times stronger. She took little sips of the liqueur to try to steady herself. "One of my servants mentioned that you had unusual methods of treating illnesses, that you had studied in the orient and knew medicines that are unconventional - "

"I know who gossiped to you," he snipped at her. "You do a few favors for the sick child of one's washerwoman and suddenly one's business is spread out everywhere. If I could do without servants, I would, damnable gossips." After doing that one favor, Erik already had a few other unfortunates turning up at his door, asking for this or that. They're lucky he still had some sort of remnant of a heart and didn't turn them away.

" - yes, well, my husband and I have been struggling with my issue for a few years now and that's one of the reasons that we've come to this little town. He thought being away from the busy city would settle me and the weather here is so mild…"

"Nerves? Is that all?" He shifted in his seat and took another long pull from his glass. "There's a perfectly suitable doctor in town who can prescribe you something to deal with that."

"Not nerves, monsieur - something else. The doctor here in town is so...so old! I'm afraid he's not willing to try anything...different." The little cordial glass trembled in her grasp as she brought it to her lips. "Have you heard of...female hysteria?"

Erik almost expelled his drink from the hole that served as his nose. "I beg your pardon?"

"Female hysteria, sir...Do you know of this condition?"

Of course Erik had read about this idiotic so-called condition, something that confused him so thoroughly. How could these men of science be so ignorant and prudish about the simple act of sex? Could they be so clueless about women's pleasure, have their heads rammed so far up their self-important posteriors, that they couldn't comprehend that women had needs too? Even in Persia where women were kept hidden away, there was a wealth of erotic literature, art, poetry to help a couple achieve mutual happiness. To see the condition that his homeland was in with respect to something that he so desperately wished for was depressing to say the least. He felt sorry for all of these doctors' wives.

Now a clearer picture of the being before him came into focus. No doubt she had been locked up in the conservatoire while climbing the ranks in the opera. The vicomte had probably seen her perform and snatched her up at once. Either he was very young and clueless about the act or very old and indifferent to a woman's needs and the poor girl never had her own desires considered. She, not knowing any better, had probably grimly suffered under her husband's selfish labors, enduring his carelessness as a good wife and faithful Catholic.

"Monsieur...doctor….Erik….My husband and I have been trying since we were married for a child. I've tried to give him everything he wants but lately, I find myself unable to even...perform...the basics. Everything is so painful, it's like I've shut up as tight as a clam. He's growing impatient with me…" She lowered her eyes.

How he, the oldest most friendless virgin in the world, found himself having a sex talk with such a beautiful creature was beyond his comprehension. For once he was incredibly grateful for his mask because it was hiding a raging fire in his cheeks. He tried to remain composed and took another full gulp of his brandy.

"Have you heard of...inducing a...a…forgive me if I get the term wrong, monsieur - inducing a hysterical paroxysm?"

A yataghan to the gut, a pistol at the back of his skull, a flavorless poison slipped into an unguarded meal...Erik had pictured his own death many times, but never once did he imagine perishing so thoroughly from embarrassment in his own parlor.

" _Excuse me_?"

"Is that the correct term? A doctor makes an...adjustment...to a woman's...feminine area...and induces a hysterical paroxysm as a cure for hysteria?"

"Yes - I'm familiar with this but - but - " He stood suddenly and turned away from her. "I'm not that kind of doctor. I can...perhaps give you a book that can explain how you can do this for yourself but - "

"Please!" He heard a rustling of skirts and turned to see that she had thrown herself to her knees in front of him. "I've lied to my family and my servants and came out alone to see you, desperate for help! My servant told me your abilities are without equal...and I'm afraid, monsieur - afraid that I'll never be cured!"

Another issue came to him...It was far too easy, too convenient for husbands to dismiss their wives with claims of hysteria and send them away to an asylum for "recovery". That was another cruel practice; the women with money might be condemned to a spa-like prison, others thrown into a hospital for the insane. The thought had obviously crossed her mind, evident in her desperation.

"Erik...I have money...I'm willing to pay any price…" Her clasped hands, her pleading eyes, her grave tone hinted at other things, things that, if Erik were a weaker man, he would take advantage of. It was taking all of his strength as it was to simply look at her begging before him for something so intimate, so shocking.

Then, a thought bloomed in his mind...Not exactly the most noble thought because while he played at being a gentleman, he knew deep down in his soul he was a remorseless monster. What other opportunity would he have to touch a willing woman? Perhaps he could simply do this small favor for both of them...She would go back to her husband, refreshed and inspired, and he...he would have had at least one morsel of human contact in his miserable life. He had to remain clinical, professional, but...there was that risk, the danger of lighting that fire within him. Once he went down the path of desire, he could become ungovernable, insatiable, obsessed. There was nothing to be done once his passions were set in motion. He had no scruples getting what he wanted when it was simply stealing a bejeweled cat's collar or some unsuspecting idiot's coin-laden purse. It was another matter when it came to another human being.

No, he could never sink so low as to take a woman by force even though he could do so very easily. When he couldn't get what he wanted, he would turn to dangerous ways to drown out the yearning within him. He had already weaned himself from opium and morphine before; he was loathe to inspire himself to turn to those methods of wiping his mind clean again.

Still - what other opportunity would he have to touch a woman? Just once, it would be only just this once...And he would be doing an innocent girl a harmless favor.

"Madame," he leaned down and took her by the arms, gently bringing her to sit on the couch once more. "You have already paid me with that beautiful song earlier. I will...I will help you but...I must confess, I know the technique but haven't performed it before."  
"I've heard of your skill, monsieur," she said excitedly. "I'm certain if you try - "

"Yes, yes...I'll try. Now, perhaps...I'll get you another cordial to help you relax and just...get comfortable here on the couch. I'm going to go wash up and I'll join you in a bit."

"Oh...Oh, thank you, monsieur!" She grasped his hand and pressed his cold, bony knuckles to her forehead in gratitude which was enough to make him shudder with anticipation.

 _What did you get yourself into, you immensely foolish idiot?_

Erik poured her another cordial and went to his bathroom to clean his hands under hot water hoping to warm up his usually cold touch. He ran through his understanding of the act and of feminine anatomy over and over in his mind, veering between dispassionate, clinical interest and eager, half-restrained lust.

He returned to the parlor, pausing to look at her sitting so stiffly on his couch, the late afternoon sun - what little filtered through the smattering of clouds - illuminating her creamy complexion. The cordial and her anxiety stained her cheeks a charming, bright pink. He strode across the room, determined, yet the way she lifted her eyes to him almost completely undid his resolve.

"Where do you want me to be, doctor?"

"Err…" He glanced around at the room. "I'm afraid I'm not set up to receive any patients. Here on the couch will be as good a place as any. Here - " He tucked a few overstuffed pillows into the corner of the sofa and brought a little footstool towards her. "Lay back on these and place your left foot right there. That should be comfortable enough."

She lay back on the pillows, her hands knit tightly together on her stomach, but kept her shaking knees together.

He grasped the hem of her voluminous skirts. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes."

"You understand that...this is a very intimate procedure?"

"Yes."

"And that you have a right to say no to me at any time, no questions asked? You have a right to leave at any time, that I will not force you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable?"

" I trust you; you are, after all, a man of science, a doctor."

"Yes. Yes, I am." _I have a doctorate in lying to pure, trusting innocents._ "I will begin the procedure then."

She nodded and took a deep breath, pointing her eyes to the ceiling. He lifted her skirts and folded them over up to her waist. Gently, and with hands that shook from suspense, he pressed his fingers between her peaked knees and parted them, placing one tiny foot on the footstool he had provided to the side of the couch and pressing the other knee against the backrest. Her little leather bespoke boots were covered with charming spats that had tiny shiny buttons running up the sides. Her stockings were a deep plum color and had a darling little design woven into them. Her crisp white linen bloomers were edged with the most exquisite Swedish lace, a touch of finery out of most women's reach. There, at the center, was the gap in her bloomers revealing the delicate pale skin of her inner thighs contrasted with a mass of dark brown curls. Within the soft, voluminous hair was the object of his scholarly interest, visible only as a small slice of pinkish flesh.

Hesitant and trembling, he extended his fingers and brushed the soft skin. She gave a little sigh and shifted around a bit.

Feeling a bit of sweat beading on his forehead behind his mask, he lifted his eyes to her. "Are you still comfortable? Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes, yes...Please proceed. I'm sorry, I'm just so - "

"Please don't apologize. This is new to us both, after all…"

He returned his attentions and tried to gaze at the wonder before him with a removed, scientific eye. He spread the flesh, revealing a deeper, more vibrant pink inside of myriad lovely little folds. He was fascinated; it was so beautiful and seemingly throbbed with a force that looked as if it wished to pull him into it. He fought against a longing to suddenly plunge face-first into this little piece of human heaven.

Slowly, softly, he stroked the skin. She shuddered but made no move to stop him. Growing bolder, he continued exploring the exterior of her sex with easy, studious movements. At the top was a little pearl he had read about, a place where women could draw pleasure from. Using two fingers, he stroked around it, moving closer and closer. He was almost all the way into a scientific mindset until she moaned - a sweet little cry from her golden voice.

All of the confidence the brandy had afforded him drained out of him and he became so keenly aware of every mote of dust in the air, every hair against his hand, the magnified sound of her rustling dress, the pulsing of her blood beneath her creamy skin. He pressed on despite his trepidation, stroking the area that she seemed to get pleasure from faster and faster.

She moaned, she shivered, she slightly shifted about. Whatever he was doing was working and he felt his heart soaring. To think that he - _he!_ \- could give a woman such sensations set him aflame. She had closed her eyes which allowed him to watch her glorious expressions as she bit her lip, knit her brow, pressed her eyes tightly shut. Ah - what an incredible sight!

He decided to try something more. Keeping his left fingers busy working in circles around her sensitive spot, he pressed his right index finger between the silky pink lips. At this, her thighs jumped and shuddered. She suddenly sat up, coming up so quickly and so closely to his face, they were almost in a kiss.

Gathering his wits, he tried to speak, hearing his voice crack. "Madame, did I hurt you…?"

"A little but...but...it's important to try…" she said, her sweet breath hot and hard across his face.

"Madame, we can try but if it's impossible you have to listen to your body…"

"Just go slow," she said, nodding. "I'm feeling better it's just...I guess it's my condition."

"Yes, vicomtesse. Perhaps a bit of...massage?"

"Perhaps…" She lay back on the pillow and positioned herself closer to him, spreading her legs even wider. He was almost in physical pain from his yearning and struggled to keep his head clear. He was so close to losing control, he knew now that this wasn't the best idea, but he collected himself and pressed on.

 _You are doing her a favor, this is just a medical procedure...You can do this, you can manage…_

As if playing a piano, he lay his hands at the juncture of her thighs, caressing her beautiful flesh. He ran his hands firmly up and over her legs. Beneath her bloomers, he felt the ruffles of her garters around her thighs and he playfully plucked at them. With her eyes still closed, she smiled. It was a quirky little gesture that went far towards relaxing them both. Ah, how he longed to kiss her exposed skin, to pull at her underthings with his teeth, to dive down between her legs!

After warming her up a bit and putting her more at ease, he refocused his efforts on the main area. Once again, he worked on and around the apex of her sex with his left hand. His right index finger tentatively slipped between the soft folds once more and he was surprised to note that it was now slick. His previous efforts had yielded results!

Slowly and carefully, he worked his index finger deeper inside her warm, wet opening. He felt as if he was dying and yet truly living for the very first time. He had imagined this moment, had read about it in the many books that lined his home, but never once did he picture that this would happen to him. He steadied his hands, softly working at her, and glanced up to see if she was still enjoying his efforts. Her eyes were still closed, her brow still adorably furrowed, but now her little pink lips were pursed and parted, her breathing quickened. What an amazing view!

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Ayesha, his Siamese cat, had perched herself on the wingback chair, judging him through narrowed eyes. For a second he felt on fire with shame but hurriedly looked away and refocused; the guilt would come later. What a wanton, immoral scoundrel he was!

He paused and retracted his hand for a second, wondering what more he could do. This temporary stop caused his patient's eyes to flutter open.

"Is there something wrong, vicomtesse?"

"Please - don't stop, monsieur!" she said, urgency in her words.

"You were feeling something, vicomtesse?"

She vigorously nodded. "Your hands - they're like magic!"

Under his mask he flushed a dark scarlet. What an incredible achievement he had earned! "Madame flatters me."

She waved her hand at him. "Please continue; I felt as if I was close to a...a…"

"...hysterical paroxysm?"

"...a revelation!"

"As you wish, madame."

She lay back, throwing her arm across her eyes and repositioning herself once more. Her other hand drifted across the front of her bodice slowly, sensually.

He believed it was time to perhaps try another finger. His left hand took up its previous rhythm and now his middle finger joined his index in exploring her depths. Soon, he was working both hands together with a steady tempo, a natural cadence emerging just as when music flowed from him. Before too long, she was bucking her hips against his hand, her darling chirps and purrs and gasps and cries coming faster.

And then - ! A miraculous quiver started in her legs that radiated up throughout the rest of her body. Her back arched, her hands curled into her skirts, and her mouth parted to let out an almost musical moan. The flesh around his fingers pulsed and quickened. As the convulsions subsided, she collapsed back into the pillows. He took this as his cue to withdraw his hands. Her head remained tossed back, her breath still came in little gasps through her parted lips.

"I'll….allow you to compose yourself, madame." He lowered her skirts, stood, and hurried to his bathroom, trying to hide his almost painful and obvious arousal.

He threw open the cold water tap but before he plunged his shaking hands into the cleansing stream, he paused. Drops of her beautiful fluid glimmered on his hand. Although he felt on fire with shame, he also felt strangely compelled to bring it to his lips. Without hesitation, he lapped it from his fingers, savoring it, savoring her.

 _God...what madness is this?_

He scrubbed his hands hurriedly, his mind swirling with images, reeling with disbelief. The sweat from his brow and the heat from his face was uncomfortable underneath his mask. Would it hurt to just remove it for a moment, to cool his burning skin?

The answer, of course was yes, because moments after he removed his mask and splashed the cold water on his bare face, he heard a gasp from the doorway. He glanced up and saw her figure reflected in the mirror above the sink. Although it was dark and he didn't have the lights on, she must've seen his face reflected too.

His face, his accursed face! He quickly pressed a hand towel to his face to dry it and to hide it.

"I'm...sorry, I didn't mean to intrude...I'm just so grateful...I was worried you weren't - "

"Please go back to the parlor; I'll rejoin you shortly," he said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than he wished. She nodded and scurried away.

 _What a fucking monster_ , he said to his reflection in the mirror, the warmth of his triumph receding and his usual self loathing flooding back with a vengeance. She no doubt had the good graces and at least a smidgen of gratitude to contain the revulsion she must feel for him now after catching a glimpse of his hideousness to end the afternoon with a polite goodbye. He replaced his mask, steadied himself, and went back to the drawing room where she was sitting once more on the couch, Ayesha making herself a cheerful nuisance on her lap.

"Are you feeling better, vicomtesse?" he asked, keeping his distance.

"Oh, doctor - "

"Just Erik will do."

"Erik. It was...incredible!"

Her expression had not a hint of disgust or fear and instead she seemed flushed with excitement. Perhaps she hadn't seen after all…?

"Are you certain I can't pay you?"

"Helping my patients is its own reward," he mumbled. "I trust you are recovered enough to go home now?"

She nodded and, after gently removing Ayesha from her lap with a quick little scratch under the chin for a goodbye, she followed him back to the front room.

He ran his fingers over a section of the many books that lined his hallway and extracted a tiny tome.

"Here, my dear; perhaps this will help." He pressed the slim book into her hands. "It's an ancient lover's manual, filled with descriptions, illustrations, and poetry."

She flipped through a few pages and blushed. "This is...not exactly clinical."

"I don't believe your issue is altogether clinical. Perhaps you can introduce this to your husband, try something new?"

"I...I don't know if Raoul would be altogether open to these sorts of ideas…" She shrugged and tucked the book into her purse.

"Well..." Erik coughed. "You can always take a lover. Many unfulfilled wives do such a thing, just be sure they're discrete. It's more common than you would believe"

"A lover…"

"I would hate to introduce you to any ideas that go against your vows, though. There's a section within the book that demonstrates how you can...induce a hysterical paroxysm in yourself."

She nodded and then, after a quiet moment, she stepped closer to him, looking up at him with a searching expression.

"I sincerely thank you for performing this unusual service for me. You've helped me immensely."

"The pleasure," he said, "was all mine."

With a little curtsy from her and a small nod from him, he opened the door for her and she slipped away into the early evening, back to her old life. With hands that felt as heavy as lead, he turned each of the many locks on the door, locks that he installed to keep the entire world at bay. What a fool he was to let her in, to give in to his mad schemes! He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, wondering how he could go on living without her now that he had heard her voice, experienced her pleasure.


	2. A Cure for the Physician

Summer dragged on seemingly forever. Erik felt suspended in a void, consumed by endless longing yet terrified to see her ever again. His friend Nadir had written him about the opera's fall program and in response, all Erik could manage was a three sentence reply.

 _Had an experience. It was not good, it was not bad. More to follow._

If he didn't give the former Persian chief of police any further information and soon, it was as if he was practically inviting the man to turn up at his door and interrogate him. What could he say about his moment of weakness, of the folly he indulged in and now suffered for? The urge to chase away this intense longing with one of his old vices was overwhelming, another thing for him to wrestle with. On top of everything, a powerful music began flowing from him as well and he gave into the spirit of creation, sometimes going days without eating or sleeping.

For whatever reason, one particular day at the beginning of August, he felt the need to put himself back together. He bathed using his expensive soaps, trimmed up his hair a little, put on a fresh outfit and sat at his piano, feeling a strange sense of peace he hadn't had for weeks and weeks. Perhaps he was finally shedding this dark mood that hung over him these past few months.

He should've known his intuition was trying to tell him something was up. As he sat wandering through some Mozart, he could swear he heard her heavenly voice reaching out to him once more. He rest his hands on the keys and the singing continued - was it still a dream? There was a shy tapping on his door; had she truly come back? And why? He smoothed his thick hair down, terrified of opening the door yet compelled to do so. He wanted to see her so badly, to hear her voice, to bring her pleasure once more, and that wanting was destroying him from within. She was a pretty poison, too dangerous to approach.

He slid open the peephole and confirmed that yes, she was there, looking much happier than she had the first time she darkened his door.  
"Monsieur - I've brought back your book. Please let me in?"

He slid the peephole closed and pressed his forehead against the door. It was madness to let her back in - pure, destructive madness! - but he felt powerless to deny her. Slowly, he undid all of the locks and cracked the door.

"Well? Just hand it over." He extended his hand through the opening. She brought out the book and held it out to him but when he made a motion to take it from her, she coquettishly pulled it back.

"May I come in? Please?"

He hesitated for a moment but then admitted her. She swept in, a cheerful air following in her wake. How much lovelier she looked! Had she been this beautiful the first time they met? Or was it because her husband was finally bringing her the joy she so deserved?

She walked over to the piano and lay the book on the top. Ayesha, sitting in her customary position, gave an eager meow and stretched her lithe body out, as pleased to see Christine again as her master was. She even allowed Christine to scratch her sensitive belly. Erik sat at his piano bench and began to play a light tune to steady his nerves.

"Thank you for returning the book but if it was helpful, you can keep it."

"Monsieur -"

" - just Erik."

"Right...Erik. Thank you for letting me borrow the book. I wanted to return it before I left."

"Left?"

"Yes. We're returning to Paris. My husband believes that this time away from the city has done wonders for my...condition...but Paris is our home after all."

"I see. Well. I'm glad that things have worked out for the best."

"All thanks to you."

He looked away from her earnest eyes and focused on playing, trying to forget the heaviness in his heart.

 _No good deed goes unpunished, does it?_

"Erik…" She was suddenly behind him. How had he lost track of her? Had he sunk so deep into his mind for even just this quick moment that he missed her movements? She was so close, practically whispering in his ear.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you...Your music, your knowledge, your kindness, your voice...your touch…"

 _Your face. Say it, just say it_ , he thought, inwardly cringing.

"At first I thought you must be terribly lonely but then...as I considered it more...I realized that you had instead shut out the entire world, pushed everyone away. I...I might know why…"

"You saw why."

"Erik...please turn to me."

"Why?" His hands trembled at the keys.

"Please. I want to ask you something…"

He sighed but couldn't help but oblige her. He swung his legs over the piano bench and turned to her. She gazed down at him not with pity nor fear nor curiosity but a strange sort of determination.

"Erik...I barely know you - or knew you - and I'm afraid I'll never be able to come back and speak to you again. And I don't believe you would welcome me back a third time anyways."

"What is it you wanted to know? I can't guarantee I'll have any satisfactory answer."

"Erik...Have you ever been kissed?"

 _What a question!_

With a hard, involuntary jerk of his head, he turned his face away from her, giving her a wordless answer.

She gave a little sigh through her nose. "...and I requested something so private from you...Oh, Erik...I wish...I wish...things could be different…"

He was about to say something cutting and short to cover up the bitterness welling within him but he was instantly silenced by the feel of her fingers on his jaw. Just her light touch felt incredibly intimate against his skin, skin that hungered so acutely for her caress. She leaned down and without holding back delivered a single, sweet kiss.

He was frozen, he was burning, he was shattered into a thousand pieces and put back together on the edge of her kiss. She paused for a moment, judging his reaction, before going back for more. Slowly and softly, she deepened their kiss, unfolding a lifetime of longing. His hands shook violently at his side until she brought them up and around her waist. He pulled her down into his embrace and she eagerly sank down, straddling him on the bench.

Ah - how she lost all of her previous shy hesitation! She seemed to be willing to help him catch up on the yawning years of loneliness without a shred of reservation. Gratitude, lust, adoration poured through him; he was overwhelmed with sensation and let her guide him into this unfamiliar territory.

Underneath her many skirts, he felt her pressing against him, and he thrilled remembering that split in her bloomers and what lay within. She broke their kiss with a strangely adorable little growl in the back of her throat. They were both breathing hard in harmony when she leaned back a bit and, looking him in the eye, reached down between her legs. The second her hand brushed against him, hard and ready for her, he fell back onto the piano, his elbows banging the keys so loudly that Ayesha bolted from her perch. Christine smirked, emboldened, and with her nimble fingers undid the buttons on the front of his pants. He sprang into her hot little hand and she gave his cock a few firm strokes for good measure before guiding it inside of her. She was so wet, so pliant and primed, he wondered if she had gotten excited on her way over. The thought that she wanted him, anticipated being with him, set him on fire. She leaned over, grabbed the sides of the music rack for leverage, and began rocking back and forth. Lost in sensation, he wrapped an arm around her waist and buried his face in her soft, smooth neck, uttering words of gratitude, passion, love.

In this state, his reflexes were dulled, he didn't realize that she was pulling back a bit, that she had hooked her devious fingers under the edge of his mask. With one swift movement, she snatched it away.

He gave a cry - of surprise, betrayal, sorrow - and locked his arms around her. Her eyes roamed his features, his deep-set shadowed eyes, his sunken cheeks, the sharp angles of his face, his papery skin, and the black hole where his nose should be. In her gaze was curiosity, sudden understanding; she was seemingly searching for something. He was paralyzed, waiting for the blow to come, waiting for fear to descend upon her, for her to scream and run from him. _Mad, foolish woman!_

She didn't scream, she didn't flee; she took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, then found her rhythm again. Her simple act of sweet acceptance brought tears to his eyes. As she continued, they tracked down his face and she kissed each one away. How easily this divine, saintly soul dismantled him, took apart years of misery!

She quickened her pace, murmuring something he didn't quite make out in his ear. He could hardly focus, couldn't understand his own native tongue as he felt the pleasure within him building to release. With a gasp, he pressed his face to her chest as, shuddering, he came hard. She held him tight, stroking his hair, giggling a little into his ear.

Oh. She was _pleased_ with herself.

With a smile on her lips, she dipped her head down to kiss him again, bringing a little levity to his serious spirit. He wanted her to feel this way, wanted to bring her pleasure like before, wanted to do all of the things he couldn't when he had to hold back.

Swiftly, he picked her up and flipped her around. After moving her dress out of the way, he laid her down lengthwise on the piano bench and dropped to his knees between her thighs. She gave a little gasp of surprise to find herself in this situation, but surrendered to him. God, how he hungered for her! He nipped at the fabric of her knickers, kissed that delicate, exposed flesh at the seam of her thighs while his fingers began working at her exactly the way he knew she liked. After a minute or so, he dove right in, enthusiastically lapping at her, sucking at and working her little pink pearl between his lips.

He savored every sensation, the taste of them mingling together, the silky softness of her flesh, even the way her hairs tickled his nasal cavity. She wound her fingers into his hair, crying out, hitching one leg over his shoulder, writhing under his efforts, even kicking her little boot into the piano leg a few times. He had to hold onto her hips to keep her down on the bench.

Just as before, her legs began to quiver first. The shaking radiated from her center, culminating in a beautiful, musical cry as her body went completely limp. He slowed his approach as the shivering subsided, kissing at every inch of exposed skin, finally popping his head up to check on her.

Slowly, she raised herself up on her elbows. Her hair was in total disarray, her face was flushed, and she wore a naughty, mischievous smile. He wanted to laugh at what an adorable disaster she was but he was unsure if it was polite to do so during such a moment. She led the way as usual, practically smacking her hand into her nose and she tried to stifle her giggling. Grinning like a fool, she crawled up and bent forward, giving him a sensual kiss.

"Stand up," she commanded. He wasn't sure if his legs would support him as they had seemingly turned to jelly but she was quite insisting, pulling at his collar. On shaky legs, he rose to his feet. In her newly liberated and fearless mindset, she leaned forward and once again released his cock from his pants, planting a kiss on it.

Just when Erik wasn't sure how much he could take, she began lavishing affection on it with her petite hands, her pretty mouth, her eager tongue. Erik's head lolled back as a moan escaped his throat, and he couldn't resist digging his fingers into her voluminous curls. His knees almost gave out from under him when she glanced up at him, a delicious twinkle in her eyes, her head bobbing in a steady rhythm.

After another moment of this, she leaned back and said, "I want more."

"More…?"

She nodded.

"More."

Erik was tired of holding back, couldn't do so any longer, and decided to give in to his bold urges and take the lead. He pulled her up to her feet, pressed her to him, and gave her a long, slow kiss. In one swift move he kicked over the bench, reached over, dropped the fall on the piano keys, and hoisted her onto it.

Christine gathered up her skirts to give him access and once he had it, he acted without wavering. She wrapped her legs around him and held him close as he kissed her neck, spoke words she never dreamed she'd hear. Raoul, while kind and giving, had a limit in what he was interested in pursuing, but it was Erik's enthusiasm, his gratitude, that opened doors to Christine she didn't even know were there. His voice in her ear was as intense as his cock inside of her.

She felt another wave of pleasure building and moved her hand to a better place to help it along but he batted her fingers away, eager to master his new skill. They fumbled about for a moment but once he had the right spot, it was as if she had been jolted by electricity. She clung to him and abandoned herself to all of the bliss she had been searching for.

Afterwards, she asked him to take him to her bed; he swept her up in his arms and obliged her. Leaving just the sheer curtains drawn to allow the late afternoon sun to filter in, they lay in each other's arms, skin to skin, and she told him of what had happened in the months since she had last seen him.

She described her marriage and it was much like Erik had pictured. They were childhood sweethearts, reunited by chance, and married quite young. Both of them barely knew much more beyond the basics and were apparently too reserved to go to their friends for advice. They thought that the way things were between them was as it should be and went on without much thought about it until their two issues cropped up - first her struggle to conceive and then her inability to even try. He was apparently the youngest in his family; his much-older brother was no help and he couldn't go to his spinster sisters and aunts for anything. She didn't have anyone after her father died and was too shy to speak to her little theater friends about her issue.

Her husband had been willing to try her newly-discovered technique, and while he was adequate, he wasn't exactly as enthusiastic or as patient as Erik had been. Christine had been too shy to introduce the book to him but had obviously taken a few notes.

She realized she found herself thinking often of Erik, not just of what they did but of what kind of life had he led, who he was and where he had come from. She was desperate for his music, and that shared moment they had before he had even touched her had gone far in opening up something good inside of her that she thought she had lost long ago.

She tried to be brave, had returned many times with the pretense of bringing back his book even though he intended it as a gift, and never found the courage to knock. However, she heard his playing drifting through the doorway and would sit on his stoop, her face pressed to the door, desperate to hear him play, longing for him, afraid of what she would do if he were to open his door to her again.

There was cowardice in her bravery today; she was leaving tomorrow, could only stay until the sun started going down, and wasn't sure if she would ever return to this town again. She wasn't sure if she ever should see Erik again, even though she had made up her mind to do what they had done. Even though she had no regrets, she had vows to consider, a marriage to keep, and a position in society to uphold.

Erik held her close, allowing his hands to wander aimlessly over her body, reveling in the sensation of her warm, soft flesh against his. He listened and tried not to speak; what else was there to say anyways? She was better off with her little fellow instead of being sealed up in this house with an old, irascible misanthrope. Even though he knew he had to let her go, he was screaming inside for her. This is what he feared - the intense, all-consuming desire to bind her to him and never let her go, the need to hear her incredible voice every day and share his bed with her every night, to catch up on years of loneliness and deprivation. His need for her was so severe his very bones ached, but he couldn't say anything and thus swallowed every single word and thought down.

As a final request, he only asked that she leave after he fell asleep. He wouldn't be strong enough to say goodbye and let her walk away, and she confessed that perhaps it would be the same for her, too. Noting the sunlight was running out, she begged him to take her again and when they were finished, she cuddled close with him, nestling her face into the crook of his neck where his pulse beat hard and strong with yearning.

Of course, Erik couldn't sleep as long as she was there; he needed to drink up every moment with her. Most likely Christine knew that too, but played along for both their sakes. He lay as still as a corpse and listened as she washed up, got dressed, and put herself together again. Before going, he felt her draw near and lean over him. He savored her scent, the feel of her hair brushing against him, the touch of her skin. She placed a lingering kiss on his forehead and he felt two teardrops fall there as well. She hurried from the room and with the sound of the door opening and closing, she was gone from his life.


	3. A Healing

Was there a better friend than Nadir Khan? A patient, humble man who gave so much and got so little in return? A man who could gaze into the black depths of Erik's soul and still stay by his side, support him?

Erik fell into his usual bad behavior after Christine's departure. First came an endless depression, a state where he lay for hours and hours in his bed or on the floor or draped on the sofa if he was feeling particularly adventurous. Ayesha wouldn't let this stand for very long and after a few days would sit on his chest and bat him about the face. She wouldn't be denied fresh sardines, after all. When he finally found the energy to wander about upright, he spent his days obsessing over the little remnants of herself she'd left behind - the cordial glass that had been on her lips, the hair she left on his pillow, the scuff on the piano leg where she'd kicked it.

Next after the depression came a flare up of his sharp, quick temper. His frustration and anger at the world manifested itself as a need to lash out at everyone and everything and the perfect target presented itself in the form of his gossipy maid. Couldn't the little idiot have kept her trap shut and just done the bare minimum cooking and cleaning that he asked of her instead of delivering Christine to his door? Must he do everything himself? He usually retreated to a corner of his house and made himself scarce while she did her business but he felt moved to give her the most severe tongue-lashing the poor woman had ever received in her life. He fired her on the spot but without someone around to make him a decent coq a vin and press his clothes just as he liked, she was back in his employ by the end of the week. Besides, she kept mum about his mask at least. Plus she had three children to feed; what would she do without the wages he paid her? After all of the tourists dried up after summer, she needed the extra work and he was quite a generous employer.

Tearfully, she swore to never breathe another word about his abilities but in another week's time she had brought in her elderly father who had a severe earache, and then a cat with a broken tail, and after that, a neighbor's child who had come down with a persistent and severe cough. He almost considered hanging a shingle - almost.

Finally, Nadir arrived to sweep up the incredible mess Erik had made of himself. Foolish Nadir, who risked his life to preserve Erik's with the caveat that he explore his so-called genius yet all Erik wanted to do was hide in a hole and be done with humanity. For all his sacrifice he lost his position in Persia and now subsisted on a meager pension all while keeping tabs on a cranky disaster of a human being. As a form of thanks, Erik loved to rain down abuse on this saint of a man, kicking and screaming like a brat. All of this made Nadir - foolish, idiotic Nadir - laugh and try harder. The blood of princes truly ran in his veins.

Erik finally wrote a brief letter to him about what had occurred, sparing the details, omitting her name and any incriminating specifics, as a way of explaining his lapse in communication and hopefully preventing him from turning up at his door. Nadir congratulated him, trotted out that tired old yarn that it was better to have loved and lost. Erik would rather have never had anything so severe introduced at all. It was like starving and being fed a single grain of sustenance, then plunging back to starvation.

Erik declined to come to Paris, and denied Nadir a visit to his own home as well. This wasn't altogether uncommon but after a few years without laying eyes on his elusive friend, Nadir felt something was afoot and turned up on Erik's doorstep unannounced. He was just in time to nurse Erik through his latest round of self-destruction, a rather vicious bout of heavy drinking. He marveled over all of the music Erik had been creating and fought with him over submitting it somewhere to have it performed. For this gentle suggestion, Erik practically bit the man's head off. The fool just laughed in the face of Erik's rage and remained stubbornly by his side until he regained his health. Couldn't this idiot let him die in peace?  
After suffering this intruder for over a year, Erik was finally able to boot him out and reclaim his privacy, but only after promising to come visit soon. He was got away with hiding out in his home for almost another year but Nadir insisted, coming up with a very strange demand rather suddenly - that Erik must come celebrate his birthday. They hadn't made a big deal about birthdays before...what was Nadir playing at? Still...it had been a while since he had been out, and he did miss the opera, even with that damnable Carlotta swanning about and screeching like a trampled goose. Erik accepted the invitation to stop by for a week, packed up Ayesha in her basket, and arrived at his friend's Parisian flat in the dead of night.

On Nadir's so-called birthday, Erik presented him with a very fine bottle of wine and a rare edition of a book he enjoyed. He gamely allowed Nadir to drag him along to the opera, going by the dark side streets and being let in the back door by his friend at the opera. Erik's intuition was flaring up again as he hung his coat on the peg in their box and settled into the seat that was most in shadows.

"What are they putting on these days, Khan?" Erik asked, looking around for program. Nadir sat next to him, brimming with a nervous energy that made Erik wary. There was a strange smile on his lips as he handed Erik the program. Erik narrowed his eyes and peered at the cover.

The name of the performance was the same name as the piece he had been working on.

Unable to believe it could possibly be his composition, he flipped to the inside of the playbook and scanned the details. There were all of his works' titles, attributed to an "anonymous composer".

"You great fucking booby!" Erik screamed in a fit of rage as he thwacked his friend with the program so hard across the face that the man's astrakhan cap went flying over the balcony.

"My hat -!" Nadir rubbed his cheek and looked out over the side of the railing to see what fate had befallen his cap. The people below were scandalized, murmuring about the unexpected projectile and the offensive language raining down from the box seats. Erik snatched Nadir up by the lapels and dragged him into the back area of the box. Nadir was barely able to keep his toes on the carpet and could feel the heat from the burning fury of those yellow eyes in the dark.

"What did you do? Answer me! What did you do?!"

"Come on, man - compose yourself! They already think I'm an eccentric and bothersome old foreigner; if you behave so rudely they might never let me back!"

"I allow you into my home and this is how you repay my hospitality? By stealing my compositions? This work was never meant to see the light of day!"

"Erik - you know I treasure your genius, and I'm disappointed you never do anything with it - "

"And that is my fucking right!"

Nadir felt spittle hit his face but he pressed on. "It is your right but it's such an immense shame! Look - your name isn't on the program, nobody knows anything about you...You can hide in the darkness and no one will know one way or another. Besides - I went through a lot of trouble to get the Palais Garnier to put this on! And - and - it's my birthday!"

"You might be one of the lucky few who exit this miserable life on the same day of their birth!"

There was a loud knock on the door. Erik dropped Nadir and quickly scurried into the shadows.

"We might be thrown out because of your rude behavior, you damnable fiend!" Nadir scolded him bravely now that he wasn't in his grasp. Erik grumbled a half-hearted death threat and stayed hidden. Nadir opened the door and was rather relieved to see that it was his friend, Madame Giry, the ballet mistress.

"Is there a problem?" she asked, handing Nadir his cap back.

"My friend here is making a fuss," Nadir said, replacing his cap.

Madame Giry stared down the two blazing pinpoints in the dark. "The composer, correct?"

"That's right."

Erik snarled and ripped a program in half in an act of muted fury.

"He's causing a commotion. The patrons are complaining. The managers might hear that there's a problem and come sniffing around. You could lose your box," she said.

"That's what I told him!"

"How incredibly thoughtless it would be if your friend's outburst cost you your box, Nadir."

"Very thoughtless indeed." Nadir nodded.

Madame Giry's stony gaze didn't waver. "My advice to your friend is to sit the fuck down and be quiet or get the fuck out of the building."

Erik mumbled a few more vows of vengeance and fierce protestations but eventually, faced with these two immovable forces, he acquiesced and meandered back to his seat, angrily crossing his arms and legs like a petulant child.

"Perhaps I'll bring you up some champagne to lighten the mood?" She asked, her tone more relaxed.

"That would be splendid, dear!"

"And a new program?"

"We would so appreciate that!"

Madame Giry nodded and as she was half out the door, Erik could hear Nadir whispering something, almost using a sing-songy tone...and did he give her a peck on the lips? Erik thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye but could barely focus. The rage within him was too strong to concentrate on anything other than how much he hated his dear friend for pulling such an insane prank on him.

"You know, this was an immense undertaking...It took me years to put together this performance," Nadir said, sitting next to Erik.

"I loathe you from the very depths of my being."

"You know how those idiotic managers always play it so safe because they're terrified to rattle their ancient customers…"

Erik grumbled. He did so despise those two fools who ran the theater! Often after a particularly grating performance, Nadir and Erik would write a biting review and pay to run it as an announcement in the paper without a name attached to it. They would wait for news from Madame Giry, who would report back about how their missive sent the two idiots into fits, and have a hearty laugh.

"Well, I took copies of your composition to Antoinette who tried to get them to accept a modern work and they were quite stubborn until she brought it to the attention of one of the big patrons of the theater, the de Chagnys…"

Erik felt as if he received a jolt of electricity but made no move to betray his surprise at hearing that name again. "What…?"

"Do you remember many years ago when I told you there was that singer who appeared and disappeared in just a season or two? Well she married the patron of the theater, the Vicomte de Chagny. He just continues in his older brother's footsteps in supporting the theater but because she came from some sort of musical background, she actually takes an interest in the productions. Once Antoinette got her to rally around your work, the managers began to soften. What got them to agree, I think, was when they told Andre and Firmin that the seats would be packed if they played a mystery concert for some anonymous composer. And they were right - look at them all down there! Every seat sold!"

Erik felt paralyzed; his hands remained clenched on his knees. Did she know? Was she here? The champagne and an unsullied program appeared and he accepted both without protestation.

"You know…" Nadir continued. "It was such a shame she didn't pursue a career but I don't blame her...She appeared out of seemingly nowhere...I think that one time Carlotta got terribly ill, this girl came up as a last minute replacement."

 _That one time Carlotta got ill_ …

Erik remembered being particularly vexed by Carlotta's antics one evening, and, in a particularly nasty mood, he sent her a box of chocolates laced with a little flavorless tincture sure to make her sick. Was he responsible, in a strange, roundabout way, for Christine taking the stage? And, in that same vein, for her little fellow seeing her and taking her from the opera?

Another wretched thought came to mind suddenly and burning anger welled up in his chest again.

"Carlotta - ! This piece is _not_ for Carlotta to sing!"

"That's another great thing! She won't be singing tonight at all!"

" _What?_ "

"No - the vicomtesse said she would return to the stage to perform this piece herself, especially after Carlotta demeaned the work. As you can imagine, that was just the cherry on top for Andre and Firmin. Oh, if you could imagine how angry it made that old foghorn! She was ranting and raving, so I heard! She's quite jealous of madame de Chagny but they calmed her down by agreeing it would be a one time thing...We'll see, though...You know, the vicomtesse was quite taken by this piece. She kept asking me if I knew the composer but I said it had come to me from a roundabout way. I'm certain if you should seek a meeting after the performance, I believe she would be quite discrete and understanding of your need for privacy..."

Erik couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. To hear her golden voice performing his own music...He couldn't decide if he wanted to die immediately or live in this moment forever.

"I shouldn't have given you this champagne…" Nadir wrestled the glass out of Erik's grasp after watching him suck down a few glasses in rapid succession.

Momentarily, the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed, and the orchestra began to play. Erik usually had some pissy commentary about the bassoon player whom he had insisted for years that he needed to be fired for years for being tone deaf or that one percussionist who was always a half beat behind but he had no such words this time.

Then - she appeared, and with her, his intense desires. Clothed in an incredible gown, she walked the stage like a queen, her voice bringing his music to life. She was so radiant, she exuded such profound emotion that Erik struggled to draw breath. Although she had thoroughly enchanted every soul in every seat, he could feel that this performance wasn't meant for anyone but two people. He seemed to swim in this moment eternally, tethered to her, anchored to her voice.

When it was over, there was a moment went the world seemed suspended in time. And then, with one clamorous roar, every member of the audience leapt to their feet, applauding.

"Look! Look at that, old man - that's all for you!" Nadir shook Erik's shoulder as he rose to his feet, joining in the applause. Erik didn't give a damn for any scrap of approval from the entire human race and the cheers and applause didn't move him in the least. He was fixated on Christine, bowing and performing endless curtsies as the cries of adulation continued. Those self-righteous prigs, Andre and Firmin, dared to take the stage next to her, drinking in the celebration of a performance they had fought tooth and nail against. They brought Christine two immense bunches of roses but her arms were already laden with so many bouquets, she was barely visible above the flowers.

Nadir leaned over and said, "...The offer stands. Would you like to meet the star, your patron, the vicomtesse?"

Erik stood slowly. In a moment of madness, he seriously considered stealing away to her dressing room, speaking to her again, reigniting the desire he had fought so hard to suppress just for want of spending another second in her presence.

Just as he was about to agree, her little husband came rushing onto the stage, carrying yet another handful of roses. He was shockingly handsome, blonde with a weak little mustache that he must've acquired in his youth and decided to cling to even though it was embarrassing in a man of his age. Good looks and an overflowing wallet went far towards excusing such ridiculous styles, Erik surmised. He wanted to hate him, and in fits of jealousy had imagined him as a loathsome, careless oaf, but the way he worried over her and rushed to gently support her as she practically swooned, Erik found he couldn't despise him.

The vicomte was accompanied by a little dark haired boy of perhaps five - her child. Apparently, they had gotten over the barrier that had prevented them from conceiving. The boy pitched himself into Christine's skirts, joy plainly on his face. His eyes were filled with adoration for his extraordinary mother, and Christine leaned down to give him a kiss on the forehead.

The sudden need to see her, speak to her again, faded as he watched the happy family on the stage. There was nothing more to say now. Their two spirits had met and mended in this moment but that's all it was - a moment.

Christine's eyes searched the seats as if hoping to see him there, but she was growing weak from her exertion. She began to waver on her feet and leaned on her husband for support.

The divine creature seemed as if she had given up her very soul this night. No emperor ever received so fine a gift. Erik wept.


End file.
